


Almost Like Family

by Emospritelet



Series: Drinking To Forget [6]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Family Fluff, Fun With Eggnog, Oral Sex, Smut, Table Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 17:54:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13172163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emospritelet/pseuds/Emospritelet
Summary: Detective Weaver wasn't expecting any visitors over the Christmas period, so he's surprised and pleased when Lacey shows up at his door.  Smut is followed by more visitors, as Alice and Detective French drop by.





	Almost Like Family

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a series of ficlets on tumblr, but then I decided to group them together and pad them out into a proper fic with some added scenes and smut :)

Weaver usually faced the festive season with a mixture of resignation and dread.  For one thing it meant more drunk people to deal with, and his colleagues seemed to lose the ability to concentrate on anything that wasn’t connected to Christmas.  Then there were the carollers who he was half-convinced were running some sort of tinsel-wrapped extortion racket.  Christmas also seemed to start earlier each year, with the residents of Seattle sporting Santa hats and wishing one another a Merry Christmas as soon as the Thanksgiving turkey had been eaten.  And then there was that other feeling, the feeling that had gotten ever stronger over the past few weeks.  The feeling that there was something missing from his life.  Something important.

If he was completely honest with himself, which he was, of late, getting increasingly bad at, he also missed Lacey.  She had told him that she planned to visit some old friends for Christmas, the news delivered in a careless tone that made his heart sink.  Of course, they hadn’t said that what they had was serious, but they had been spending a lot of time together when they each had an evening off, which was at least once a week, and his feelings for her had been growing more intense with every night.  He wasn’t being honest with himself about that, either.

He had planned to bury himself in work on Christmas Eve, but Lieutenant Griffin had told him in no uncertain terms that if he didn’t take a few days off, she would leave him no choice in the matter by hospitalising him.  While he was ninety percent sure she was joking, it seemed wisest to stay on her good side.  The woman was more than capable of making whatever she chose to do to him look like a tragic accident.  So here he was, sprawled on the couch at six in the evening, drinking eggnog straight out of the carton like a fucking sad bastard.  At least he hadn’t moved onto the whisky, he supposed, but the night was young, and it wasn’t as though he had anything better to do.

A knock at the door made him glance up, and he frowned.   _If it’s those fucking carol singers again…_   Pushing to his feet, he prepared a choice series of insults ready to hurl, and stomped into the hallway to wrench open the door.

“Hey.”

The sight of Lacey, slouching against the door frame and grinning up at him, was a welcome one.  She held up a bottle of whisky, putting her head to the side, her dark hair gleaming in the light, and he felt his heart thump in his chest.

“I got you a present,” she said.  “Thought I’d come help you drink it.”  She put her head to the side, nodding at the carton in his hand.  “What’s that, milk?”

“It’s eggnog,” he said, with a grin.

“Thank God, for a minute I thought you were sick,” she drawled.  “Who the hell sits on their own drinking milk on Christmas Eve, anyway?”

“Well, apparently not me.”

“Apparently not.”

She was grinning at him, and looking him up and down as though she wanted to eat him.  It gave him a delicious feeling, a flutter deep inside him that tickled at his brain and caressed his heart, so he tried to suppress it.

“I thought you were visiting friends this Christmas,” he said.  “Aren’t you supposed to be on a bus to Maine, or something?”

“Well, I was going to,” she admitted.  “But something changed my mind.  It suddenly seemed way more important for me to come over here.”

He was glad to see her.  As ever, it felt as though by her very presence she could lift his heart, and make his world a little brighter.

“You didn’t think I’d let you spend Christmas alone, did you?” she added, and he couldn’t help smiling.

“Right,” he said.  “Right.  Well, thanks for the whisky.  I - uh - I didn’t get you anything.”

Lacey shrugged, full lips pouting as she smirked at him.

“That’s okay,” she said.  “I can think of a few things you can give me.”

He grinned at that, and held open the door, letting her in.  Lacey slunk past him, swinging her hips, and shrugged off her coat, hanging it on one of the hooks in his hallway.  He stared at her, clearing his throat.  She was wearing a short flared dress in red velvet with white faux fur trim, and a black belt with a gold buckle, as though she were one of Santa’s helpers.  If Santa had spent his time making gifts for horny adults rather than innocent kids, of course.  There were white stockings clinging to her legs, the lace tops just peeking out below the hem of the dress, her feet in black high heeled shoes.  He locked the door behind her, following her through to the kitchen, and she slid the bottle of whisky onto the counter next to the bottle of Drambuie that he had opened the last time she came over.  She had her back to the kitchen table, and she boosted herself up on the heels of her hands, sliding back a little.

“You gonna offer me a drink?” she asked, and he grinned.

“So, we have whisky, Drambuie...” he said, gesturing at the bottles.  “I could make you a Rusty Nail, if you like.”

“Sounds good.”  She raised an eyebrow, a wicked glint in her eyes, and slowly parted her knees, her thighs sliding open and exposing the tops of her stockings.  “Nail me.”

Weaver licked his lips, his cock twitching with interest at the look in her eyes.

“You,” he said.  “Are a very bad girl, Miss French.”

“Maybe you should cuff me,” she suggested, and held up her hands, wrists pressed together.  He bit back a groan.

“Dammit, woman!”

She giggled delightedly, and he shook his head in amusement, reaching into the cupboard to take out a whisky glass for her.  

“You’ll be the bloody death of me,” he remarked, as he took two ice cubes and dropped them into the glass.

“I’m guessing you’ll die happy.”

He chuckled, and poured a measure of whisky and a measure of Drambuie into the glass, turning to face her as he held it up.

“Kiss me first,” she said, and so he set down the glass, stepping over to put his hands on her thighs and bending his head to kiss her.

Her skin was cool, her lips soft, and he groaned a little as he slid his hands up her legs beneath the hem of her dress, the lace tops of the stockings scraping gently against his palms.  Lacey reached up to touch him, her mouth hungry, her fingers carding his hair as her tongue stroked against his.  She opened up his shirt, pushing it from his shoulders, and he tugged it off, groaning as she ran her hands up his chest beneath his undershirt.  She pushed it up, tugging it over his head, the silver chain he wore around his neck falling against his skin with a light clink of metal.  Lacey licked her lips as she ran her eyes over his naked chest, and bent her head to suck on his nipple, making him groan with pleasure before he twisted his hand in her hair, lifting her head up for a messy kiss.  His tongue probed her mouth, desperate to taste her, and he tugged at the belt of her dress, unbuckling it and letting it fall to the side as his hands slid up her body to cup her breasts through the velvet.  The dress was laced down the front and sides with white ribbon, with no bra beneath, and he tugged at the bow knotted at her cleavage, pulling it open and opening up the bodice to expose her pale skin, her breasts small and firm.  He pulled his mouth from hers, breathing hard.

“Are you hungry?” he whispered, his lips brushing hers.  “I could cook something.”

“Maybe later,” she breathed, her hands tightening on the skin of his chest.  “I want you.  I missed you.”

He had missed her, too, but he didn’t say it.  Instead he kissed her, trying to put as much emotion into it as he could.  His fingers tugged at the laces of the dress, opening it up until it fell from her body, leaving her in stockings and a white lace thong.  Lacey let out a low purring noise, letting her head roll back, and he began to kiss his way down, lowering her back onto the table as his tongue swirled over her skin.  An idea formed in his mind, and he straightened, reaching behind to grasp the Drambuie bottle.  He opened it up, pouring a thin stream onto Lacey’s breasts and making her squeak and giggle.

“That’s cold!”

He bent his head to her, drawing his tongue across her skin and sucking the sweet liquor into his mouth.  Lacey moaned, arching her back, and he sucked at her nipple, making it harden, her skin sticky-sweet and the taste of the Drambuie warm on his tongue.  He poured a little more, spreading it with his fingers, painting loops and whorls on her skin before bending to lick it off, and Lacey gasped as he sucked at her, lifting off the table a little before thumping back, her thighs rubbing against his hips.  He wanted to get inside her, but she was so beautiful lying there in just a tiny thong and her stockings, and so he kissed lower as a bead of liquor ran into her navel.  His tongue pushed inside, catching the droplet and pulling it into his mouth, and his fingers found the waistband of her thong, pulling the string down over her hips and off at her feet.

She was already wet, and he could smell her arousal, a heady scent that made him growl in pleasure.  He kissed down over her belly, listening to her breathing quicken as his nose nuzzled her inner thigh, and the tip of his tongue gently stroked through her folds, the flavour of her bursting on his tongue.  Lacey let out a moan, her fingers stroking through his hair as he licked at her, and he slid his hands under her buttocks, lifting her up a little so that he could reach more of her.  Her clit was a hard, swollen bead, and he circled it with his tongue, loving the taste of her, the scent of her.  Lacey was moaning and writhing, her thighs gripping his head, and he kept up his rhythm, drawing his tongue across her sensitive flesh, dipping into her entrance, teasing her.

Her breath was quickening, her fingers tightening in his hair, and she let out a loud cry, lifting up off the table as she came.  He could taste her in his mouth, salty-sweet and delicious, and he pushed his tongue inside her to catch every drop, groaning in pleasure.  She was still jerking, her hips bucking a little, and he wanted to fuck her, to slide deep inside and spurt into her.  Not yet, though.  First he wanted to taste her a little more.

He pressed a kiss to her and pulled back, straightening up, and Lacey looked at him through sleepy eyes.

“I have condoms in my bag,” she murmured.

“It’s alright, I’ll get one.”

He went to his bedroom, rummaging in the drawers for a condom, and snatching up the carton of eggnog from the lounge when he went back through.  There wasn’t much left, but enough for what he wanted, and the idea of licking it off her was much better than his original plan of drinking the entire thing in one go and finishing off with whisky while feeling sorry for himself.  He was immensely glad she had decided to come over.

When he got back into the kitchen, Lacey had pulled up her knees, stockinged legs parted a little, so that he could see the deep pink flush of her sex, still glistening.  He licked his lips, his cock twitching in his pants, and threw the condom onto the table beside her as he held up the carton of eggnog.  He raised an eyebrow, and Lacey giggled.

“As long as you clean it up in the most interesting way you can think of,” she said, and squealed as he upended the carton, the drink flowing in pale streams over her breasts.

“That looks dirty,” she said, with a snicker, and he grinned.

“Yes, I thought so too.”

“It’s like you just came all over my tits and now you’re gonna lick it off,” she added.  “Kinky bastard.”

He smirked at that, and bent his head to sweep up a trail of eggnog with his tongue.

“I imagine this tastes better.”

“You taste pretty good to me,” she said, and his grin widened.

“Maybe later.”

He sucked at her breast, tongue stroking over her nipple, and Lacey moaned, arching up a little, her hands in his hair.  His tongue swept over her skin, cleaning up the sweet drink, the flavours of rum and vanilla coating her skin, warm in his mouth as he licked at her.  Lacey’s thighs rubbed against his sides, and he wanted to slide inside her, to feel her around him.  The table was at just the right height, and he straightened up, unbuckling his belt and dropping his pants.  She was breathing heavily as she gazed up at him, her pupils wide and dark, her mouth soft and pink and wet.  He slipped inside her easily, pushing deep, and Lacey lifted her knees, putting her ankles over his shoulders, her high shoes brushing his ears as he thrust into her with a low groan of pleasure.

“Fuck, you feel good!” he gasped.

“So do you.”  She moaned as he pushed into her.  “God, that’s deep!”

She was gripping him tight, the pressure against his cock almost enough to make him lose it, and he reached around between her legs to rub at her as he thrust, making her moan and arch up off the table.

“That’s good!” she whispered.  “So fucking good!”

She was almost panting, her chest heaving, pale skin sticky with the residue of the eggnog, her nipples hard and taut.  He knew he was close, and he wanted her to come with him, to feel her clamp down on him and tug at his flesh with her own.  He quickened his pace a little, and Lacey moaned, her eyes closed, her lips deep pink and glistening.  He couldn’t hold it any longer, and came with a deep groan, pulsing inside her, thrusting rapidly.  Lacey cried out as she came, her cheeks flushing, her body jerking, and he growled at the feel of her around him as she tugged at him, pulling him deeper inside.  He sagged forward a little, resting on the table on the palms of his hands, trying to catch his breath, and Lacey sent him a lazy smile, blinking sleepily.

“Well, well,” he said, somewhat breathlessly.  “Merry fucking Christmas, I guess.”

* * *

They took the rest of the eggnog to bed with them, and after half an hour or so of teasing, he was ready to take her again.  Lacey let out a moan of pleasure, legs wrapping around his back as he moved, thrusting inside her.  She pushed her fingers through his hair, gasping as he kissed down her neck.  The scent of him was strong in her nose, musk and sweat and the fresh-scented cologne he used, and she let her head roll back with a sigh as he ground against her.

“That feels good,” she whispered, and he kissed her, his mouth hot and sweet, the kiss messy, new stubble scraping her chin.

“I’m glad you came, Lacey,” he murmured, his lips brushing against hers.

“I’m glad you left me some eggnog,” she remarked.

“Tastes sweet on you,” he said, and drew his tongue up her throat.

“Yeah, and now I’m all sticky,” she grumbled.

“Sticky and delicious,” he whispered, and she patted his shoulder.

“Speaking of,” she said.  ”You can cook, right?  Last year I ate hotdogs for Christmas dinner and I really wanna level up this year.  Like maybe a burger.”

“Are you more interested in food or sex at this point?” he asked, somewhat dryly, and she rolled her eyes.

“I can think about both, you know.”

He chuckled at that, and kissed her again.

She was trying to concentrate on him, on how he was making her feel, on the taste of him and the feel of him inside her.  Unexpected noise was making that difficult: the cheerful, slightly off-key singing of a dozen voices floating in through the window, and Lacey groaned into his mouth as she recognised  _Joy To The World_.  Not exactly sexy, in her opinion.  A swift knock at the door of his apartment made her aware that they were expected to pay for this assault on the senses.  She pulled her mouth free, nipping along his jaw and tugging at his earlobe with her teeth.

“Are you sure it’s illegal to kill carollers?” she asked, and felt him smile against her neck.

“Pretty sure, yes.”

“Bugger.”

* * *

They stayed in bed until the carol singers had moved on, then Lacey announced she was going for a shower to get rid of the eggnog residue.  Weaver made them drinks while she was in there, pouring large measures of the whisky into glasses and setting them on the coffee table with a plate of spiced cookies that he had bought in case Alice came over.  He had no idea what he was going to cook for them the next day, now that Lacey was staying.  Hopefully she wouldn’t want anything too fancy.

The shower shut off, and he settled on the couch to wait for her.  She came through with her hair wrapped up in a towel and wearing one of his shirts, which he thought looked far better on her than on him.  He had pulled his discarded shirt back on over his undershirt, but hadn’t buttoned it, and she bent to kiss him, using a finger to trace the silver links of the chain around his neck.

“Cookies, huh?” she remarked, as she straightened up.  “Don’t mind if I do.”

She picked one up, taking a bite, and a knocking at the front door made them both look around.

“That had better not be bloody carol singers again,” he grumbled, and Lacey shook her head.

“They moved on ages ago.  Are you expecting anyone?”

“Pretty much everyone I know has somewhere far better to be,” he said.

“Except me, apparently,” she said, and kissed him again.

The knocking came again, more insistent, and Lacey sighed, taking another bite of her cookie and flouncing to the door.  Opening it up, she was confronted with a tall young man, brown-haired and eyed, clutching a paper grocery sack in one arm and blinking at her in surprise.  She recognised him as Weaver’s new partner.

“Um…”

He looked her up and down before glancing away hurriedly, blushing, and she was suddenly very aware that she was wearing nothing but Weaver’s shirt, and that for some reason that fact was making her feel awkward.  Weird.

“What the bloody hell are you doing here, French?” called Weaver.

“I - thought you might want some company,” said French.  “I brought something to drink, if that helps.  And some food.”

“Don’t you have family to go to?”

“Not really, no.”

“Christmas doesn’t have to be about family, you know,” said Lacey, reaching out to take the grocery bag.  “I say if he brought food and booze he’s welcome.”

French sent her a grateful smile, and she felt an unexpected surge of something that she couldn’t quite define.  Almost as though she wanted to protect him.  Weaver grunted.

“He’s sleeping on the fucking couch,” he muttered.

French closed the door behind himself, looking around the apartment somewhat awkwardly and not really making eye contact.  Weaver supposed that he could button his shirt, but frankly he couldn’t be arsed, so he put down his glass and stood up, waving French to the couch.

“Drink?” he asked.  “I have whisky, and there should be some beers in the fridge.”

“Oh, I brought beer, too,” said French.  “That would be great.”

He was shifting from foot to foot, looking embarrassed.  Weaver imagined that he hadn’t counted on his partner’s girlfriend being over, but it wasn’t as though the kid had seen anything improper.  Well, unless you counted Lacey’s legs, and frankly those were a work of art.

“Sit down, for fuck’s sake,” he said impatiently, and French dropped onto the couch immediately.

Weaver ran a hand through his hair with a sigh, going through to the kitchen, where Lacey was going through the paper bag.  She had taken out wine and bread and a large bag of chips, and there was a six-pack of beer.  Weaver put it in the fridge, pulling out a cold one from his own stash and opening it up.

“Don’t suppose there’s a pizza in that bag, is there?”

“There’s olives,” said Lacey, holding up a small plastic tub, and he rolled his eyes.  She sent him a look.  “Come on, it was good of him to bring food and booze.  I just brought the booze.”

“You also brought yourself,” he reminded her.  “That’s more important.”

She smiled at him then, her eyes sparkling, making his mind tickle in that weird way it did around her.  She lifted out some cheese, setting it down.

“I guess we have to kiss goodbye to our night of wild sex and screaming orgasms,” he remarked, and Lacey grinned, holding up the wine.

“Wanna get shit-faced instead?”

“I’d prefer to have all my faculties, thank you,” he said.  “If my enthusiastic young partner hadn’t come over I’d have you stretched out on the table again.”

Lacey looked amused at that.

“You’ll have to wait to get your rocks off, Detective,” she said.  “Besides, we can’t let him spend Christmas alone, that’s just mean.”

“I am mean, or hadn’t you heard?” he growled, leaning in to kiss her, and she pressed herself against him, moaning a little as he cupped her breast through the shirt.

“Ah - um - sorry!”  French’s voice made them spring apart, and Weaver sighed as he darted out of the kitchen.

“God, it’s like having a bloody kid in the house,” he groaned, running a hand over his face.

* * *

Weaver had to admit that Detective French really wasn’t so bad, once Lacey had borrowed a pair of pyjama pants to spare him blushing over her bare legs.  She had knotted the shirt underneath her breasts, which exposed her navel and the flat of her belly, and tied up her hair, and French had relaxed a little, sitting back on the couch and talking to her about books.  It was a subject about which she was surprisingly knowledgeable, and Weaver was struck by how little he actually knew about her.  He resolved to spend more time talking with her the next time they had a date.  About something other than how much he wanted to make her scream.  

The three of them drank beer and ate chips and bread and cheese, and after an hour or so, he decided that there were worse ways to spend an evening.  And then there was a knock at the kitchen window.

“We’re - we’re on the third floor…” said French, confused, and Lacey sighed, sliding off Weaver’s lap so that he could get up and open the window.

“Took your bloody time!” complained Alice, pushing down the hood of her coat and shaking out her blonde curls.  “Merry Christmas, you big loser!”

She grinned at him as she straightened up, brushing snow from her shoulders, and he rolled his eyes.

“I suppose you want something to eat,” he said, and gestured at the kitchen.  “Help yourself.”

“Can I have some of that whisky, too?”

“You can have a glass of wine,” he said sternly.  “Since it’s Christmas.  Leave my bloody whisky alone.”

She stuck out her tongue at his back as he walked through to the lounge, and Lacey stood up to take the glasses through to refill them.

“Merry Christmas,” said Alice.  “I see you’ve met the fine, upstanding Detective French.  Weird that you have the same name.”

“Coincidence, I guess,” said Lacey.  “You okay?”

“Not bad.”  Alice shoved a piece of bread and cheese into her mouth, chewing and swallowing.  “Thought I’d look the old bugger up.  ‘Tis the season, and all that.”  She raised her voice a little.  “Thought I’d keep him company, since he has no friends, the old Scrooge!”

“You can sleep in the bloody fireplace!” he called through, and Alice stuck out her tongue in the direction of the lounge before gathering up a plate of bread, cheese and chips, and a glass of wine, and carrying them through.

“How was I to know you’d suddenly have your family around you?” she said.  “Only family you’re ever likely to have, anyway.”

“Only family I need, thank you,” he said, and took a drink.

“I’m touched,” said French, grinning, and Weaver frowned.

“No, I didn’t mean…”

“Aww, we’re  _family_!” said Alice, flopping onto the sofa next to him.  “Never knew you cared, Detective.  Although I suppose a bunch of misfits and outcasts was all you  _could_ want, given that you’re not fully human.”

“What?” said Weaver, looking confused.

“See his pixie ears?” said Alice, tugging on one of them and making him scowl.  “He must have been a changeling child, I always thought so.  Forever trapped between two worlds.  Must be why he’s such a grumpy bastard.”

French snickered, and Weaver’s brows drew down.

“Someone’s gonna pay for this insubordination,” he said flatly.

“They  _are_  quite pointy,” noted Lacey, dropping herself onto his lap and running her fingers through his hair.

“Not you, too,” he sighed.

“Awww, look at my little elf!” she said, pouting, and cupped his face with her hands.  “Did you tell Santa what a good girl I’ve been?”

“That would be one of the biggest lies an elf ever told in his life,” he said dryly, and she giggled, kissing him.  Alice looked over at French.

“They’re like this a lot, “ she said.  “You get used to it eventually.”

“As long as everyone stays fully clothed I think I can cope,” he said.

“Not making any promises,” said Lacey.  “But I’ll drag him in the bedroom if it’s a real emergency.”

French looked across at Alice.

“I don’t suppose you brought earplugs?”

* * *

Weaver swore under his breath as he rummaged in a cupboard, pulling out a bag of chips that he hadn’t been looking for but that he suspected his uninvited guests would like to eat.  He tossed it onto the counter before turning back.  There was a pleasant buzz in his head from the beer and the wine that French had brought, and he shoved bags of rice and packets of noodles aside before shaking his head and shutting the cupboard door.

“Are you trying to find your present?” asked Alice, and he straightened up, turning around.

“No, I’m trying to find the bloody wine.  I know there’s a bottle in here somewhere.”

“Hmm.”  She shifted from foot to foot, looking oddly unsure of herself.  “I - I got you one, you know.”

“What?” he asked absently, opening another cupboard and spying the wine bottle shoved on top of a pile of tins.

“A - a present,” she said, and he turned to face her, bottle in hand.

She was holding up a box, wrapped in festive paper that was very crumpled, as though it had been pulled off a gift at some point and reused.  It was tied with twine, the ends frayed, and he blinked at it.  Alice was biting her lip, looking nervous, and he set down the bottle on the kitchen counter.

“You got me a Christmas present?” he said, and she nodded rapidly, almost squirming as she stood there.

He reached out to take it, the paper cool against his fingers, the twine rough.  She watched him with wide, anxious eyes as he pulled open the bow, tossing the twine aside and pulling off the paper.  There was a tiny box made of black card, the kind that cheap jewellery was sometimes packed in, and he took off the lid, the kitchen light gleaming on what sat inside on a ball of cotton.  A heavy gold ring, the band thick and plain, set with a round stone that was sometimes blue, sometimes grey.  A moonstone, he thought.  There was something weirdly familiar about it, as though he had seen it before.  As though it had already been his.  That crawling, creeping sensation started up in the back of his mind once more, and he blinked, shaking his head to dispel it.

“I - I saw it and - and I knew you had to have it,” said Alice, her breathing unsteady.  He glanced up at her.

“Where did you get this?”

“I didn’t steal it,” she said quickly.  “I traded for it, at the jewellers on Haven Street.  I just - I thought you’d want it.”

“Well, it’s beautiful,” he said sincerely.  “Thank you, Alice.”

She beamed, looking relieved, and bounced up and down on her toes.

“Put it on, then,” she said excitedly.

Weaver picked up the ring, the gold cool to the touch, the feel of it heavy and familiar.  He was about to slip it onto the ring finger of his left hand, of all places, when he abruptly shifted his grip and put it on his right.  It fitted as though it had been made for him, and he held up his hand, watching the light shine on the gold band and the smooth curve of the stone.  There was something not quite right.   _It needs to be on your left hand_ , his mind whispered, but he ignored it.  It wasn’t as though he was married, after all.

“Perfect,” said Alice happily.  “Well, almost.”

He reached out to her then, pulling her against him for the first hug they had ever shared, and she wrapped her arms around him, her head nestled against his chest, and let out a sigh.

“Merry Christmas,” she said, her voice muffled by his shirt.

* * *

It was approaching ten, and Lacey was feeling warm, comfortable, and pleasantly tipsy.  She was nestled against Weaver’s chest, her legs stretched across his lap and his hand on her thigh.  Alice was sitting cross-legged on the floor, sipping her wine and watching them with what Lacey thought was a curious look on her face.  Detective French was seated next to Weaver on the couch, the open bag of chips on his lap and a glass of wine in his hand.  She hadn’t spoken to him much since their conversation about books had finished, but he seemed to be enjoying himself.  She found that after their initial, somewhat frosty encounter in the alley next to Weaver’s apartment, she actually liked him very much.  He was everything she wasn’t: quiet and thoughtful where she was mercurial and hot-tempered, calm and measured where she was rash and impulsive.  Nonetheless she found herself warming to him, and wanting to make sure that he had enough to eat and drink.  He and Alice had a spirited discussion about old movies, which ended in both of them acknowledging that the other had decent taste.

It had been a surprisingly enjoyable Christmas Eve so far, the first in as long as she could remember.  She moved around so much it was hard to make friends that she could spend the holidays with, and although Jacinda was a good friend, she had her daughter Lucy to take care of.  Lacey had thought that she would be stuck watching Christmas movies and drinking too much.  As it was she would probably still end up drinking too much, but at least she would have some good company.

She found herself looking at the ring that Alice had given Weaver, for what felt like the twentieth time in a minute.  It wasn’t his usual style; he had a number of rings that he wore on occasion, but all the ones she had seen so far were silver.  This was gold, and it looked heavy and old, light gleaming on the moonstone in the setting.  It suited him, though, and she kept wanting to touch it, but something stopped her.  She nestled further into his chest instead, and he kissed the top of her head.

“So,” she said, looking up at him.  “What are we eating for dinner tomorrow, and who’s cooking it?  Because I didn’t see a turkey in your fridge.”

“Honestly I wasn’t going to bother,” said Weaver.  “But then I wasn’t expecting company, either.”  He looked across at French.  “Don’t suppose you brought anything other than cheese and olives?”

“Chips,” said French, holding them up.  “But we already ate most of those.”

Lacey sighed, and Weaver looked at her.

“I guess there’s no chance of getting some fried chicken as a last resort?” he asked, and she shook her head.

“Not on Christmas Day,” she said.  “Louie always closes up at six on Christmas Eve.  That’s the one holiday he lets us all have.”

“I can get something,” announced Alice.  “I know some guys in Chinatown who’d give us a couple of ducks.  What veggies have you got?”

Weaver scratched his head, thinking.

“Potatoes,” he said.  “I think there might be some sort of green stuff in there…”

“Let me look.”

Lacey slid off his lap, and he missed her warmth.  She trotted into the kitchen, and he heard the opening and closing of cupboard doors and the fridge.  French held out the bag of chips, and Weaver took some, crunching down on them and sucking salt from his fingers.  Lacey returned after a moment.

“You have enough potatoes, and there are some carrots that have seen better days, frozen peas and some apples,” she said.  “If Alice can get ducks, we should be able to make something.  Team effort, you know?”

“Can you actually cook?” asked Weaver, and she shrugged.

“A little.  I’ve worked in kitchens and stuff, over the years,” she said.  “I just don’t tend to cook proper meals when I’m on my own, unless it’s a special occasion.  I could probably cook the dinner as long as you don’t want anything fancy.”

“I’ll run over there tomorrow,” said Alice.  “But I’ll need some money.”

“Of course,” said Weaver, in a very dry tone, and she grinned.

“I’m getting your Christmas dinner sorted, the least you could do is help out.”

“I’d have been happy with peanut butter sandwiches.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

She was grinning at him, and he couldn’t help smiling back, especially when Lacey dropped back onto his lap, kissing him once before grabbing her wineglass and settling in his arms.  It was nice having her there.  Comfortable.  A feeling of contentment was stealing over him, as though there was nothing on Earth he would rather be doing.  As though, right at that moment, he had everything he could want.  He told himself it was the wine.

“You know,” said Alice, gesturing with what Weaver was sure was her third glass.  “I just realised something.”

She was grinning, looking between the three of them, and he wondered whether he wanted to know what she was thinking.

“What?” asked Lacey, and Weaver wanted to sigh.

“If you two had a kid, he’d look just like Detective French here,” she said, and Lacey snorted with laughter.

“Don’t be so bloody ridiculous!” snapped Weaver.

“No, no, no, hear me out!” she insisted, flapping a hand.  “He has your eyes, and your cheekbones, and that weird little half-smile thing you do, and he’s totally into books, and his hair’s darker, like Lacey’s, and he kind of has her mouth…”

“How much have you had to drink?” he demanded.

“Not enough, obviously,” she muttered into her glass.

“I’m pretty sure Detective French has his own parents,” he said.  “Who would no doubt be appalled at the suggestion.”

“Actually, I’ve no idea,” said French, running a hand through his short hair.  “I was adopted.  They could be anyone.”

Weaver recalled that French had reminded him of Lacey when they first met, and that he had wondered whether they were brother and sister.  His mouth flattened, and he took a drink of wine.   _Ridiculous notion._   French turned his head, sending Lacey a grin.

“Hey, Mum,” he said.  “I’d like to make an objection about you and Dad constantly groping one another.”

“Objection overruled,” said Lacey immediately, and Weaver chuckled as French grumbled to himself.

“Pretty sure he’s older than me,” added Lacey, looking over at Alice.  “How would that even work?”

Alice waved a hand.

“Eh - time isn’t linear,” she said dismissively.  “It makes up its own rules as it goes along.  If the universe wants something to happen, it’ll happen.”

“You’re cut off,” said Weaver sternly.  “No more wine.”

Lacey giggled, and Alice stuck out her tongue.

“The universe is a far bigger place than you think, Detective,” she said.  “All sorts of things going on that neither you nor I understand.  Anything is possible.  Time travel.  Magic.  It’s all real, you know.  In the great scheme of things, young Mr French here being the product of you and Lacey isn’t the weirdest thing possible, admit it.”

Weaver shook his head, unsure whether to be amused or exasperated, and Alice pulled a face, lips pouting as though she had just thought of something.

“Of course, I’d have to figure out where the height came from,” she mused.  “Both of you are total short-arses.”

French snickered into his wineglass and Weaver frowned.

“You’re  _definitely_  cut off.”

* * *

Once it was agreed that Alice would be fetching the Christmas dinner, and that Weaver would be paying for it, Lacey poured the last of the wine.

“Gonna have to be whisky after this,” she announced.  “Hey, are we getting wine tomorrow?  Somehow I doubt Alice would get served.”

“O ye of little faith,” said Alice, with a sniff, raising her glass.

“I don’t mind getting the wine,” suggested French.  “There must be somewhere open tomorrow morning.”

“You can come with me,” said Alice.  “I know a place.  We just need to fleece the old man of some more money.”

“French has money, too,” said Weaver dryly.

“Hey, we should do Secret Santa!” exclaimed Lacey.  “Nothing too much - let’s say twenty bucks maximum.  We each get a present and no one knows who’s buying theirs.  What do you think?”

“I think this quest to buy two ducks is turning into an expedition,” remarked Weaver.

“So, we all go,” suggested Alice.  “It’s not far.  There’s the guys I need to see about the ducks, and you lot can go off and buy the wine and presents while I’m getting them.  I already know what I’m getting, and who it’s for.”

French and Lacey grinned at one another, and Weaver sighed.

“Fine,” he said, in a long-suffering tone.  “I take it the Christmas dinner is being cooked and eaten here?”

“Well, duh,” said Alice, and threw back the last of her wine.

“You’re washing up,” he told her, and she stuck out her tongue.

They sat up and talked for some time, Weaver eventually relenting and playing some music, and soon the chatter devolved into shouts and arguments over which songs should be played and which band was best.  It was French that yawned first, and Alice followed him.  Weaver announced that he was going to bed, and French graciously offered Alice the couch, but she shook her head.

“I’m fine on the floor,” she said.  “Just give me something to snuggle up in.”

Weaver went hunting for a spare duvet, and threw it at her, Alice snatching it out of the air with a grin and making herself a nest on the floor of the lounge with some of the cushions.  French was already stretched out on the couch by that point, and Weaver grasped Lacey’s hand, pulling her to her feet and tugging her behind him on the way to the bedroom.  He undressed quickly, the room very cool after the warmth of the lounge, and climbed into bed as Lacey poked her head out of the curtains.

“It’s snowing!” she said, sounding excited.  “I can’t believe we’re having snow at Christmas, this is awesome!”

“This is Washington State,” he remarked, and she looked over her shoulder at him, her mouth flattening.

“Okay, smart-arse, I haven’t been here long, remember?” she said.  “Plus it was always summer back home in Melbourne.  This is really cool!”

“It’s bloody freezing, never mind cool,” he said, and she stuck out her tongue.

“Fine, but just to let you know, I plan on being very excited when we leave the house tomorrow.”

“Thanks for the warning.”  He patted the sheets beside him.  “Come to bed.”

Lacey let the curtains close, trotting over and sliding beneath the covers.  Her skin was cold, and he pulled her close, running his hands over her curves as he kissed her.  She giggled as his hands explored her body, her breath warm and heavy with wine.

“You looking for an early Christmas present, Detective?” she asked coyly, and he grinned, his lips brushing hers.

“I thought I might be able to ring both of our bells,” he said, and Lacey snickered.

“Let’s try not to wake the kids,” she whispered, with a wicked grin, and he chuckled, bending his head to kiss down her neck.

* * *

Lacey’s head ached a little when she woke the next day, nestled in Weaver’s arms, warm and comfortable with his scent in her nose.  She rubbed her head against his chest, her nose nudging his nipple.

“Merry Christmas,” she murmured, as she felt him stir.  

His arms tightened around her as he rolled them onto their sides, and Lacey kissed his chest, sucking on his nipple and making him gasp.  She giggled at his reaction, feeling him start to swell against her belly.

“Enough of that,” she said reprovingly, looking up at him.  “We have guests, remember?”

“Didn’t stop you last night.”

“Last night I was led astray by wine and whisky and that tongue of yours,” she said.  “This morning I’m being responsible.”

“Unfortunate, but I’ll go with it,” he said, and she pushed up off him.

“Come on, we have to go out and fetch dinner, remember?”

“I remember agreeing to purchase ducks and wine.”

“So get up.”  She went to the window, peeking out and letting out a squeak of excitement.  “Oh, there’s a _ton_  of snow on the ground!”

“Great,” he grumbled, and threw back the covers.

Lacey had brought a change of clothes in her bag, so luckily she didn’t have to put on the sexy Santa outfit that she had turned up to Weaver’s door in.  She suspected French and Alice could have happily lived their entire lives without seeing her in it anyway, so she was thankful that she had had the presence of mind to pack a less revealing dress and some thick tights.  Weaver made coffee while she was dressing, setting steaming mugs in front of the others, and by the time she was ready they were all sitting around the kitchen table, holding onto their coffees as though their lives depended on it.  Lacey held up her red wool hat.

“I’ve written everyone’s name on a piece of a paper,” she said.  “We all pick one and buy a gift, okay?  No more than twenty bucks.”

“Wait, we’re really doing Secret Santa?” asked French.

“Yep.”  Lacey shook the hat at him.  “You pick first.”

He dipped a hand into the hat, drawing out a piece of paper, and the others followed suit.  Lacey went last, and got French’s name.  She pursed her lips, thinking about what she could get him in the few places that would be open.  Alice was grinning to herself, and looked around at them all.

“Just so you know, I don’t actually have any money,” she announced.  “But I’ll still give my giftee a present.  It just might be something that was previously loved by another, that’s all.”

The day was cold enough to make Lacey’s breath catch, but the snow was beautiful, and she kicked at it delightedly, scattering white powder with the toes of her shoes.  Weaver was watching her, a tiny smile on his face, and she bounced up to him and stretched up on her toes to kiss him, his arms going around her and pulling her close.  French and Alice groaned in unison, stomping off down the street, and Lacey broke the kiss with a giggle as French starting making vomiting noises.

“Come on, you two!” called Alice.  “Did you not get enough of one another last night?  The walls are thin, you know.  Detective French and I heard every moan.”

“I was trying to forget about that, thanks,” said French.

Lacey pulled back with a sigh, taking Weaver’s arm as they walked.

“Maybe we should go easy on them tonight,” she suggested.  “Save the sex for when we’re alone.”

“I’ll remind you of that when you jump me, you insatiable minx,” he said, and she swatted his arm.

Alice purchased the ducks with money Weaver gave her, and French bought some wine from a corner store that was open.  They had each wandered off to get the Secret Santa presents, but they met back at Weaver’s apartment as noon approached, and Lacey made a start on the dinner.  She kept things simple, roasting the ducks in the oven along with some potatoes cooked in the duck fat, with carrots and peas and a sauce made from the meat juices with oranges, honey and whisky.  She was quite pleased with that, the sauce sharp and sweet all at once, rich with duck fat and fragrant with the honey.  Weaver carved, setting thick slices of the meat on plates, and everyone helped themselves to potatoes, vegetables and sauce.  There was silence for awhile as they ate, Alice stuffing potatoes into her mouth as though they would disappear if she failed to eat enough of them.

“This is delicious, Lacey,” said Weaver, and she beamed at him.

“Nice to cook a proper meal for a change,” she said.  “Usually it’s ramen or frozen pizza.  No point doing something like this when you’re on your own.”

“In that case I’m glad we came over,” said Alice, with her mouth full.

Once dinner was eaten, Lacey curled up on the sofa with a glass of wine, listening with half an ear to the conversation in the kitchen as the others cleaned up.  It had already been the best Christmas that she could remember, and she was feeling tipsy and absurdly happy.  It was almost like having a proper family.  Weaver came through, wiping his hands on a towel, his shirt sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and she shifted position so that he could sit down, whereupon she promptly slid onto his lap.

“Let’s open the presents now!” said Alice, scooping up the pile of gifts.

Each one had a single name on it, and she handed them out, tearing into her own.  She squeaked in excitement as a bundle of fabric fell out, and held up a white outfit in soft fleece, topped with a hood from which two ears stuck up.

“Who got me the footie PJs?” she demanded.  “With rabbit ears!  Oh my God, I  _love_  them!”

She clutched the bundle of white to her chest before scrambling to her feet and yelling that she was going to change over her shoulder.  Weaver and Lacey shared a grin.  Alice was back after five minutes, looking every inch a white rabbit, the hood pulled up and one of the ears a little bent.  Weaver reached out to tug it straight as she sat back down on the floor.

“Who’s next?” she asked.

“Me, I guess,” said French, and opened his gift.

Lacey watched anxiously.  She had wanted to buy him something that would ensure he kept warm; she had a feeling he didn’t care for the cold.  There hadn’t been a lot of choice, but she had bought him a soft scarf and gloves, and she grinned as he wound the scarf around his neck and announced it was just what he needed.  Weaver opened up a shirt that she suspected French had bought him, and that she also suspected had cost more than twenty bucks.  It was dark red, not a colour she had ever seen him wear, but she thought it would suit him.  An image came into her head, of him in a suit with that shirt beneath, and she felt a tug in her belly at the thought of it.  Pity he didn’t wear suits.

Lacey picked up her gift then, hard and rectangular: a book, she thought.  She tore off the paper, and blinked at what she saw there.  It was a large hardcover novel, thick and old, the cover blue with gold lettering.   _Her Handsome Hero_ , it said.  There was something familiar about it, although she couldn’t ever remember reading it.

“Another book for your collection,” said French.  “I have a feeling I’ve read that one.”

“You’ve read a romance novel?” she said, and he shrugged.

“Either that or I’ve seen it around.  I don’t know, it looks familiar.”

“It’s not just a romance novel, anyway,” put in Alice, confirming Lacey’s suspicions about the identity of her Santa.  “It’s a great story: daring adventures and compassion and forgiveness, and what it means to be a true hero.  I think you’ll love it.”

Lacey opened up the book, and there was a handwritten note on the title page.   _To my son, Gideon.  Remember to be strong and true.  I will always love you.  Mother._

She traced the words with a finger, an unexpected lump in her throat.   _Gideon.  I wonder who he was.  Where he is now.  Did he love this book?_

“Are you alright?”

Weaver’s voice made her jump, and she closed the book with a snap, looking up.

“Fine,” she said.  “I’m fine.  I look forward to reading it.”

* * *

It was much later, when they had gone to bed with full bellies and spinning heads and the taste of wine and whisky in their mouths, that Lacey thought of the book again.  There was something familiar about it, but she couldn’t put her finger on what it was.  Perhaps it would make more sense to her when she read the thing.  She nestled against Weaver’s chest, watching the streetlight gleam on the ring on his finger.  The ring Alice had given him.  She wanted to touch it, and almost reached out to run her finger over the moonstone, but something made her hold back.  He kissed the top of her head.

“Thank you for coming over,” he said.

“Best Christmas I had in years,” she said truthfully.

“Yes,” he said quietly.  “Yes, me too.  I don’t usually celebrate.”

Lacey pushed herself up a little so that she could look down at him.

“What do you usually do, then?” she asked, and the corner of his mouth pulled up in a lazy smile.

“I work,” he said.  She sniffed.

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” she retorted.  “When are you back at work, then?”

“Day after tomorrow,” he said, and pulled her closer as she settled back down at his side.  “So we have a little time left.”

Lacey relaxed into him, nuzzling his chest with a contented sigh.

“Yeah,” she said.  “We have some time left.”


End file.
